


long walks in lórien

by orphan_account



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Banter, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Humor, I mean, Kissing, Lothlórien, Love Confessions, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, they are IN THE WOODS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 05:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: gimli and legolas start going on some long walks during their stay in lórien.they try not to attract suspicion.(they do.)





	long walks in lórien

**Author's Note:**

> @gayowyn thank you for the beta !! you were such a help and so kind <3

“Care to walk with me?”

The Elf’s tone is off-handed, easy, as if he is simply offering reprieve from sitting around in the grass all day. It is nothing special, nothing of note, bar perhaps the fact that he has made the same offer every afternoon since they came to Lothlórien. Gimli nods, and gets to his feet, apparently no longer reluctant to share his company with Legolas.

Aragorn casts a knowing look towards him as he brushes from his tunic the splinters and chips from wood-carving - an art the Dwarf has taken to teaching the young hobbits, but now he excuses himself half-eloquently and trots up to keep pace with the Elf.

Aragorn pretends not to notice how their hands brush once they think they are out of sight from the glade.

-

“You’ll be the death of me,” Gimli laments, “One day I shall not be able to keep up with you!”

Legolas dips his head, the inky curtain of his hair shielding their faces (but naught else) when he smiles, fox-like, and steals all of Gimli’s breath once again.

“A boast,” he replies, “For even now you lag behind!”

The Elf moves with the smoothness of a river, and would seem unaffected but for the flush high on his cheeks that creeps down his slender body. His beauty is that of honeysuckle flowers in the deep night, endlessly sweet and heady, and Gimli is drunk on it. His hands move of their own mind, mapping the expanse of uneven but firm muscle across the Elf’s chest, drifting to his waist for the hold they have found there, sure as the very rock beneath them; sure even as the love they have kindled here in the glade, hidden from view.

But mockery he will not stand for. Husband or nay, a Dwarf of Durin shall stand no such teasing words, even if they fall from a tongue of such skill.

“Ai, Gimli! You are-  _ Ah _ \- Not yet out of our competition, it seems,” Legolas laughs, breathy delight colouring every word as he arches his back and tosses his head.

“Never while there is breath in me and somewhere to lay you down,” Gimli replies, and it tastes like a vow in his mouth.

Vows they have spoken already; ones of loyalty and fealty in love, of love itself, and their surrender to the yearning in their hearts. Fools they had been, to not  _ see _ , but fools they are no more, bar for each other. The very first time they sought pleasure together, Legolas had told him vows in the Elven tongue, breathed into the space between them and intermingled with gasps. Gimli, never to be outdone, had murmured to him promises of his own, as deep and rumbling and steadfast as the mountain.

Legolas shivers above him and links their fingers, bending down when their pace turns slow and syrup-sweet, pressing his beloved into the green grass. He is nearing his end, it is evident (evident now, to he who has gained the eye for it) in the sway of his back and the feverish gleam in his eye.

“Is this the end of elven stamina, then?”

“Perhaps-  _ Ai _ , do not tease me so,” Legolas answers, squeezing his trembling legs about Gimli’s waist, and the Dwarf takes pity on him. Many a moment have they spent in the grass, sharing kisses sweetened by honey and wine, and Legolas’ patience grows thin.

“Then I count a victory for me; That I should see your finish before my own,” he chuckles, setting a hand to the small of Legolas’ back to guide him into a hastier pace, and he kisses that perfect mouth while his beloved shudders his way through his peak. “For your beauty in abandon is beyond compare.”

Legolas rights himself up, chest heaving and a wicked smile on his fair face.

“Silvertongue! I should have you taste your own medicine one day, tease you rightfully long until you are as a ripe cherry beneath me for the picking.”

“Yes, gladly,” Gimli hums, “But not now! Please, my own, I-“ he breaks off into a shameless moan as the Elf makes good on his promises, canting his hips (even after his own pleasure he chases Gimli’s with ceaseless enthusiasm) and it takes naught but moments for Gimli to yank him down and bury a groan of satisfaction in that slender neck.

While Gimli pulls back on his breeches - and Legolas does not, for he says he loves the wind and starlight on his skin - they speak no words. The Elf rolls over in the grass, and once more the Dwarf is captivated by the sheen of his skin and the fall of his dark hair, long and unbound - for him alone to see.

“You stare at me, my love. I fear our friends may know overmuch of our walks,” Legolas says all too cheerily.

“Aye, perhaps they do. You are not helping,” he harrumphs in reply, “with your singing and smiling. Lovedrunk fool! Next time, come to me when the others are not near. Perhaps then we could slip away peacefully.”

“But not nearly half as amusing to see the look on their faces!”

“Aye,” Gimli concedes, “not nearly half as fun.”


End file.
